Dry Lightning
by Gael Drake
Summary: He couldn't believe what had just happened. Surely magic was just legend, like the stories of elves across the sea. He was just a normal boy, right? She couldn't stand her father for one more minute, couldn't stand the way he was always trying to control her, never letting her make a decision of her own. But in Ellesmera, he couldn't watch her at every second anymore, could he?
1. Chapter 1

_**Dry Lightning**_

**Chapter 1**

He was not human. That was the one thing he was sure of. He had felt the power of the storm, the tearing winds and driving rain, as it burst into being. But it was more than that. He had _caused _it. He was angry and in pain, and he had wanted to hurt them as he never had before. Then something had snapped and a pocket in the back of his mind flooded open. The storm flared with the explosion of energy. Blue lightning flashed, and thunder followed it. The tempestuous winds roared, and the rain began to fall in thick curtains, soaking everyone and everything instantly. It had reacted to the intensity of his passion. There had been no motion, no words to invoke the spell, just a rush of pure, undiluted power. Then he had collapsed, and the world faded to black.

"Efrain!" a familiar voice called, drawing him back into reality. He opened his eyes. The voice sighed its relief. "Thank the gods, Efrain. I thought they might have killed you. But here you are – not dead."

Efrain blinked and the world cleared. A young man knelt over him, concerned hazel eyes set in a gaunt face like a scarecrow's. It was Zylen, probably the only man in the entire place who still had it in him to care about someone else. His nose was long and hooked, and his eyes were too far apart; but when he smiled it was still the most contagious smile Efrain had ever seen. His lips twitched briefly upward. He swallowed with some difficulty, clearing his throat.

"Is it still raining?" he asked impulsively. _Yes,_ he thought, answering his own question. _Yes it is._

He could still feel it, he realized. That sense of power lingered at the edge of his mind, waiting to be called upon again. More than that, though – it wasn't just energy or power; it was information and intuition about the air and weather as well. He shivered with nervous anticipation. He could use it more than once. Maybe the information wouldn't leave him and he could reach for it all day long. His mind had transformed, and he felt as he never had before. Magic was not human in nature, and none less than this, but it was not foreign to Efrain. It felt as if he had lost some part of himself when he was too young to remember, and only after regaining it did he realize it had been missing.

Zylen laughed. "I welcome you back from the edge of death, and you want to know if it's still _raining_? Well, it was when I dragged you in."

Efrain pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as the lash marks tore. "It's the last thing I remember. I was just curious," he lied.

Zylen nodded, accepting his friend's answer. "At least you didn't ask if I got you…lilies," he joked, picking a flower at random.

Efrain grinned wryly, "Lilies are for death; and, as you pointed out so observantly, I am most certainly _not dead._ Roses, on the other hand – Did you get me roses?"

Zylen rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I beg your pardon, sire. I shall try harder in the future," he apologized sarcastically, faking an elegant bow.

"You must. Giving of flowers – the proper ones – is a serious affair, and nowhere more so than here," he responded. Zylen flashed a quick smile.

Blood started to run down Efrain's back. He could tell by the stickiness of his skin that it had run in rivulets while he was unconscious._ Red roses,_ he thought absently, _not for love, but for the stain of blood and a tainted life._ Why had he been punished, again? He went back to the most basic reason he could think of. He was a slave. He had been sold into slavery when he was a little boy, and even before that he could not remember a family. He tried to remember why slaves were punished. Disobedience, obviously. But what had he done? His eyes snapped shut as he tried to recall.

_The boy fell beneath the weight of the cart. He was perhaps thirteen and small for that age. The drivers should never have assigned him that job. His legs twisted frantically beneath the wood and heavy load as he tried to kick free. The head driver, the cruelest of them, grasped his shoulders and jerked him away, ignoring his cry of pain. Then, he threw him to the ground and kicked him hard in the stomach. The Head drew back his leg to kick again, but Efrain moved faster than he thought possible and flung himself in front of the boy. He collapsed in a burst of pain, and curled into a ball, waiting for a second kick, every muscle tensed with the nervous dread of retribution. Instead, the Head lifted him upward and studied him with cold, grey eyes._

_ "You'll take the boy's punishment, then?" he asked, a smile curling sadistically onto his face._

_ Efrain met his eyes steadily. "I'll take his punishment. Sir." He spat the title so that it was more insult than respect._

_ The Head's eyes narrowed, his expression setting with anger. "You'll take the boy's and your own for breaking from your work. Very well, then."_

"Are you all right?" Zylen asked, dragging Efrain from his memory.

He nodded – unconvincingly, as the nod was accompanied by a tight grimace. "I'm fine. I was just remembering why I was flogged."

Try as he might, he couldn't guess how many lashes he had taken. Sometimes he tried to count, but the pain always overwhelmed him around twenty and disrupted his reckoning. He would start to lose consciousness a while after that, which was what had been happening when the storm started. It could have been twenty-five or forty-five – he couldn't really tell. After the first drops began to fall, it hadn't mattered anyway. He couldn't feel the pain, just the sensation of energy exploding through him and around him, like the bolts of lightning that he had caused. Then that rush of power had started to fade, draining his energy with it and dragging him into darkness.

Zylen smiled shakily. "That was the single most idiotic and noble thing I have ever seen you do, and I've seen you do a lot of things. I mean, I swear if you get any nobler or stupider you have to be the long lost king of somewhere or other. Whatever made you do it?"

Efrain held back a smile. Most slaves privately disrespected authority, but few did it as excellently as Zylen. Only he could compare a slave and royalty and have the slave come out on top. Still, he stifled his amusement and considered the question, which gave him pause. He couldn't name a reason, exactly. It had felt right. Or, rather, watching the Head torture the boy had felt wholly and completely wrong. The boy had been helpless, and he hadn't actually been entirely to blame. It wasn't his fault that his strength was insufficient for the task. Maybe Zylen _wasn't_ the only person who cared about someone else. Only, this felt more like a form of caring for his younger self.

"I suppose," he answered slowly, "that the boy only reminded me of all the times I was punished for things I couldn't control when I was young here. I used to wish that someone would take the pain for me. So when I saw him fall, I was thinking that he felt the same way – and he was so small and childish – and maybe someone should step in for once. I was the only one who moved."

"You are not much older than he, no? Why should it be your responsibility to protect him? You might not want to remember, but you were that small not so long ago," countered Zylen carelessly. Efrain was his friend, and that was where his sympathy ended.

It was true as well that Efrain was still a boy himself. He estimated that he was fifteen, although it was difficult to keep track of the days in a place like this. Not to mention, he didn't _feel_ fifteen. He felt often like an old, worn man with white hair and a curved spine. He was a lonesome man on his deathbed; no one stood on watch near him because he had outlived anyone who cared. He was desolate, but his last moments were no more miserable than his first. In fact, he welcomed the change, the new road that would soon spread out ahead of him because there was nothing left for him on the earth. Feeling like that made him respectful and protective of youth, which had influenced his decision as well. Still, he couldn't expect Zylen to know that, and he didn't have it in him to explain at the moment.

"It was the right choice, Zylen. Just trust me on that," he replied.

The young man's bulky shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "You're strange through and through, Efrain, Son of None."

"More than you know," Efrain replied, thinking of the storm.

Zylen looked at him quizzically but didn't press the issue. Efrain was glad of that. After all, what would he tell him? _Friend, I caused the storm today. I don't know how, but I'm sure it was me._ That would go over well. Anyone, including Zylen, would be sure that the continued hard labor and small rations had addled his brain. This form of magic – if that's what this was – was unheard of, even in fairytales. Those spoke of elves and dwarves, dragons and riders, and even monstrous creatures called Urgals; but none of them to his knowledge could manipulate the weather. Mysticism lay around all the elves, and yet every human child knew that they must have limits. All the same, Efrain had not imagined his new ability.

The door of the barracks grated open and one of the other drivers stepped in, followed by a timid female slave who had their rations. Efrain pushed himself into a full sitting position, his mouth watering. The girl handed out the bread individually, but the driver stopped her with a sharp command as she reached Efrain. Her hands shook nervously as she feared she had done something wrong. In many ways, punishment would be worse for her than it had been for him.

The driver only said, "None for him. Keep moving."

She relaxed and continued, but Efrain cursed inwardly. He had seen this coming, of course, but he was starving nonetheless. He looked at his spidery hands. If they had a little more flesh on them, they might have been long and elegant, but he had none to spare. It looked as if he barely had enough to stretch across his body, actually. The hunks of stale bread they received every day were already far too small. He tried to convince himself that it was a negligible amount and he would not miss it later. His stomach instead informed him that it was a woefully inaccurate lie.

The door groaned its protest as the driver shut and barred it, and then an elbow nudged Efrain's arm. He was already unstable from the pain of his lashes and nearly fell when Zylen jostled him. The young man offered a pitifully small taste of bread, about half his ration. Efrain shook his head. While he was perfectly content to offer food to others, he hated to take it away. For one thing, he was probably more used to starvation – he had been in captivity something like eight years, much longer than most of the others – and for another… he just didn't like it.

"You're being noble and stupid again. I think they're the same thing," sighed Zylen, waving the bread in front of Efrain's nose.

"Fine," he snapped, snatching the bread. "Just this once, but never again."

He stuffed it in his mouth, not caring that it was extremely stale and possibly moldy. His mind drifted back to the rain still pattering lightly outside. No one in living memory – which, in slavery was not very long anyway – could remember someone who could even use magic, let alone cause a storm. In order to find out what he was, though, he needed living memory. And he needed to find out, or he would never forgive himself. Worse than that, he might never be able to control himself. What good would it be if he could cause tempests but only when he lost his temper? He could easily kill someone like Zylen or the boy whose reprieve he had paid for so dearly. No, he needed to find someone who could both explain his new ability and help him learn to harness it. So he would find the elves. He had to admit, he believed the stories now more than ever. He believed they were real, though he may have to search for a lifetime to find them.

Of course, there was still the matter of trying to escape the Compound, which is what the slaves all called their master's grounds, but he would find a way to do it. There _had_ to be a way out, and if that was blocked, there must be a mistake or oversight somewhere that could set him free. He would search every day for a sign until he knew what to do, and he would be vigilant until he saw an opportunity. Zylen passed him the small pail of water they all shared, and he drank mechanically. As he did, he tried to remember weaknesses, places where there were no drivers or guards to be seen, places where it would be possible to hide until the way was clear.

Efrain passed the bucket to the next man and turned away from the pool of blood that had accumulated behind him. Gingerly, he let his hand bear his weight, and then bent his elbow, lowering himself to the ground.

"The stars look lovely tonight," proclaimed Zylen in their typical pre-sleep exchange.

They absolutely did not. It was still too cloudy outside to see the stars, Efrain decided. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and the dark clouds persisted. Virtually no starlight passed through the thick cover and into the world. He smiled slightly. Every time he accessed the new section of his consciousness, it made him feel complete and almost happy. He opened his mouth to tell Zylen about the stars and then realized that he was about to sound insane again.

Efrain, recovering himself, only answered with his customary reply, "And the moon. The wolves will howl tonight."

"Another night in paradise. I couldn't ask for anything better," Zylen chuckled.

"Well, how could you? You have _my_ company." He had perfected his tone of false superiority over the years.

"Yes, you put me right to sleep, Efrain."

"What was that? I think I must have dozed off, Zylen."

"Good night, kid."

Zylen always called him that at night, in memory of their first meeting. Efrain had been about twelve and still very boyish, but Zylen was sixteen and already a man. He had towered over him then, even more than he did now. As he looked down at the boy, Zylen hadn't been able to believe that anyone that small could work. The next day, Efrain lifted and pulled a heavy load of stones when Zylen couldn't. Ever since, Zylen had respected him and called him "kid" or "boy" as a jest at his first disbelief.

"Good night."

Efrain closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep. He hadn't even considered Zylen when he decided to escape. Supposing he succeeded, Zylen would be trapped here while Efrain wandered freely, searching for elves that he couldn't be positively sure existed. If he failed, the master would have him killed, and Zylen would still be a slave. The friends would never share their nighttime conversation again, and Zylen would have no friend in this hellhole. Leaving would be selfish. But staying would destroy him. His desire to know his identity would consume him, and his newfound powers might become unruly. One decision, the decision to help that boy, had changed him irrevocably. He would leave Zylen to learn about that change. There was no choice to make, only a compulsion to follow.

When he learned what he was, Efrain comprehended, he could very well find out who his parents were. He had no parents when he was plucked from the streets and taken as a slave, and he could not remember a time before he became a street rat. He was seven when he was captured, and though he remembered the time since with surprising accuracy, he could not remember his life before he was five. It was like there was a wall there, and pound as he might, the stone held and his memory was hidden away. Nervously, Efrain began to drum his fingers on the cold stone floor. Had he had any siblings? Had his family loved him? Soon he might know. He had tried to imagine his past all his life, but that would no longer be necessary. As the tides of sleep carried him away, he smiled one more time, eager to remember.

_It was dark and cold and everything hurt. There was a dull thud and a cry in his father's voice. He gasped and twisted towards the sound. That was his father, his papa, and someone was hurting him. He tried to call to him, but he was bound and gagged, and barely a sound issued like a whimper from his lips. Someone turned at the noise and crouched down next to him. The man's breath was foul and full of alcohol._

"_So you're the boy all the trouble's about, aye? Efrain -. Little name, little scum like you can hardly be worth the trouble," he slurred. He was clearly inebriated. Efrain tried again to squirm the other way. This man was evil; this man wanted to hurt him._

_A sudden pressure crushed his chest so he couldn't breathe. The man was kneeling on his chest to keep him from calling out to anyone. He wheezed and choked, but no air would come to him. In the fading distance, his father cried out again. Then everything was gone._

Efrain jerked into wakefulness, every muscle tensed. _Efrain. _ What had that man said after "Efrain"? It had sounded like a name, a surname like a lord might have had. But as he spoke, something seemed to obscure the word so that Efrain couldn't hear it; couldn't quite grasp it. Yet, it had been there, he was sure of it. His father must have been important to have had a surname, and he must have been worth something to make those men torture his father. That was something, more than he had known in ten years. The memory brought bile to his throat, and yet the knowledge was… satisfying. His own contentment sickened him, but it would not leave him. He wanted to close his eyes and did not dare to do it for the same reason: the dream-memory might continue. Realizing he would not sleep again, he tried to sit up but found that his back had stiffened during the night. His bare skin felt hot and the torn flesh throbbed painfully. He took one fast breath to allow himself to panic and one long breath to calm himself down. It was a pain suppression technique he had perfected years before. Then, taking slow, measured breaths, he cautiously raised himself up until he sat upright.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, but there wasn't much to see, anyway. The men were ragged and worn, down to the last of them. Their clothes were ripped and threadbare, and some – like Efrain – were bare-chested because their shirts and tunics had long since given way to the awful beatings. In those cases, their skin was damaged and sunburned; their ribs showed grotesquely through the thin layers of flesh, and the dirt and grime seemed inseparable with their bodies. All their hands and fingernails were lined and caked with soil. Many of the men were bruised and bloodstained. Some, again like Efrain, had bled during the night. A few of them would wake up still feeling faint from blood loss. It was nothing remarkable – it was the way the barracks looked every morning before the other slaves woke. In Efrain's eyes, it was a day like any other.

He stood up carefully, stretching to relieve the stiffness in his limbs. Whatever work he would be assigned always went better if he was as limber as possible first. Admittedly, he was not going to be agile as usual today, but anything was worth the effort. Efrain twisted his torso and bit his tongue, doubling over and choking on the sudden, searing pain. However many lashes he had received, it was more or more vicious than they had ever given him before. Probably, Efrain decided, wincing, it was the latter. Clearly, the Head did not like to be interrupted in the middle of his perverse games. Zylen was right – it had been stupid of him to save the boy. Not wrong, but stupid nonetheless.

The door scraped, warning Efrain of the Head's arrival. He dropped quickly back to the ground to avoid being noticed. Usually, the Head's call to work seemed urgent; a call to immediate and necessary work, obeyed to avoid excruciating punishment. Today it was monotonous. He used the same words every day: _Up! Up, rats! Quickly! Get in line and move!_ And then he would kick whoever was nearest to the door if he wasn't fast enough to his feet. No creativity, no originality. Just dull, domineering repetition. Efrain slowly pushed himself back to his feet, suddenly regretting his decision to lie back down. A new scab ruptured, and his blood started to trickle again. With utmost effort, he forced his feet to begin moving.

_Efrain, _he thought, running through everything he knew about himself to take his mind off his injuries. _My name is Efrain. I had a father once, and then I lost him. I lived on the streets, fighting for every scrap and every breath until my master's men picked me out of a slum and took me away because no one would miss me. I have worked here ever since then. I used to work deep in the silver mines, pushing carts down tunnels too small or narrow for an adult. When I grew too large for that, the Head began to put me to work doing anything he wanted, which was never anything easy. I have a soft streak in me that is going to get someone killed if I don't escape, and maybe even if I do. I am going to escape, because I am going to find out what I am and why I can cause storms. I will spend every moment of my life searching for the elves, and if I don't find them I will die still looking._

He laboriously fell into step with the others near the front of the line and began to trudge toward the barracks' door. Like the other slaves, he was careful to keep his eyes downcast, to look utterly defeated and subservient. Watching the ankles of the man in front of him, he moved to step outside. A black-gloved hand slammed into his chest, stopping him short. Efrain's heart began to pound beneath it and he looked up with growing dread. The Head's eyes were dead and unfeeling.

"Not you. I have something else in mind."

Efrain's gut wrenched in dreadful anticipation, but as the slaves filed out the door, the Head picked about ten of them from the line and herded them aside. The master had never sanctioned mass torture or execution as a means over control – he thought it was even more likely to incite rebellion – so Efrain and the other chosen slaves began to relax. It must just have been a different task than mining. Another driver, whom the Head called Jarod, appeared and shepherded the other group towards the quarries. The middle-aged man next to Efrain – his name was something like Ayris, but Efrain wasn't sure – sighed audibly. They had all been hoping that Jarod would lead them, as he wasn't nearly as predisposed to harsh punishments.

The group reluctantly trudged outside, into the now brightly shining sun. Efrain groaned inwardly as he immediately felt the hot rays beating down on his injured back, causing the wounds to begin to fester. It was going to be a miserable day, and if his lashes became infected, quite a deadly one at that. Something tugged at the back of his mind, volunteering its aid, but Efrain was wary. Storms could cause work to be as equally deadly if powerful enough. He would try not to use his newfound powers.

Then again, he realized as the tugging strengthened, it might already be at work and out of his control. A stream of magic slipped from Efrain's unwilling consciousness, and the clouds gradually darkened and thickened into a growing blanket of grey. Alarmed, he shoved back forcefully on the magic and imagined drawing the pocket closed around it. It obeyed, and Efrain flooded with an odd sense of triumph as the stream cut off but a light rain began to fall anyway. It was just heavy enough to soothe the lashes, but not to sting; and it wasn't tempestuous enough to be a hazard to work. Maybe, just maybe, the new job would be tolerable after all.

* * *

Fírnen hovered above the country, so high that the trees of Du Weldenvarden were barely distinguishable from each other, even in Arya's eyes. Arya took in a deep breath and sighed, relieving herself of the tension of ruling. As the Queen of Ellesméra, she was constrained. She had always been headstrong, and not given to the stiff elven pleasantries that were so prevalent in her country, which had heavily influenced her initial decision to become her mother's envoy to Alagaesia. Away from her home, she would be largely free of such things. But then, after her mother's death, the elven council had convinced her that not only was the title of _Drӧttning _hers by birthright – she was suited to it. To this day, she could not remember how they had managed to do so, and she sometimes cursed them as tricksters and smooth manipulators. Which they were, of course. Held down by the confines of their language, they learned to twist their words to ambiguity. But they also learned to _persuade._ The ancient language was naturally more elegant than common tongues, and elves voices tended to be melodic. Many of them nurtured these advantages until every word was succulent and appealing, and it was difficult to resist their suggestions. Arya hadn't realized until about a year after she accepted the role that she had become susceptible to their manipulations, and by then it was far too late to change her mind. She was a trapped monarch, to be sure. Even now, she had not been at peace in what seemed like far too long, although these years were the blink of an eye in the life of an elf. The emerald dragon sent her a vague question in the form of a feeling – was she all right?

His rider answered to the affirmative, adding tiredly, _Flauga, Fírnen, flauga fram._ Fly, Fírnen, fly forward.

Her sentiment was clear, though her words were brief. She wanted him to fly far away from Ellesméra, to carry her away from the strife. Her life as a Rider was her only escape; it was the only justified absence she could claim. It had been nearly ten years since Galbatorix had fallen and Urû'baen had again become Ilirea, and yet Alagaesia still struggled to reform. Surely, Nasuada was a powerful queen; but her kingdom was vast, and even she must take time to reconstruct such a devastated empire. That was not Arya's main concern.

What worried her the most was Nasuada's continuing fear of those who wielded magic. She had been tortured by the Rider King and seen shades and magicians and sorcerers fight against her in the war, and for that reason, wariness of _gramarye_ was to be expected. But this was paranoia. The magicians were a source of constant worry and the Riders – though Eragon would never lead them against her – were worse. But most of all, the Queen of Alagaesia feared the unpredictability of the elves. Never mind that without Ellesméra the Empire would still be suffering under Galbatorix's rule, or that the elves had never shown any inclination of war with her. Nasuada had learned to instinctively distrust the magical, and the combination of Ellesméra's proximity and power led her to misgivings. Much of Arya's time spent on politics and foreign affairs was spent assuring Nasuada that she and her ambassador, Vanir, meant only to help her. She had spent ten years saying the same words in slightly different forms, trying to convince her that she had nothing to worry about. But still Nasuada was itching to police the magicians and the elves; she wanted the power to hold them down or lock away any malicious thoughts they might ever have. She didn't seem to realize that, in a way, she would then become as oppressive as Galbatorix himself.

_Fly to the ocean, Fírnen,_ she requested. Though the elves lived in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, they had a long, ancestral love of the sea, expressed in many songs and poems and tales. It had mesmerized them no less after a thousand years in Ellesméra than it had after three. The ever-changing waters would provide Arya welcome distraction and solace. The dragon changed his course obligingly, and Arya attempted to divert her attention from Alagaesia's troubles. Not long later, the expanse of blue spread out before them and Arya caught her breath. She had traveled over it several times to see Eragon and the new Riders, but she was always awed by the sight. The sea was always the same, but ever-changing. The waters rose and fell in predictable time, but storms could rage without warning, and beasts might rise from the surface. And every storm, every creature, every pounding wave added to the nearly ethereal beauty of the everlasting waters. Arya resolved herself to add to the store of poetry on the ocean. Fírnen alighted on the soft, white sand just above the line where the foam fell upon the shore.

_It is good to be away from the city,_ acknowledged Fírnen in his resounding voice as she slid from his back.

_I agree, _responded Arya. _Here we may be free of restraint._ She knelt to unlace her fine elven boots. Moments later, she stepped free and rolled up the bottoms of her leggings. The elf stood barefoot, letting the water wash over her in splashes of white foam. Eyes closed, she breathed in the cool, salty air that reminded her of being a child more than a century before. Her mother, Islanzadí, and her father, Evandar, had both been alive in those days, and Islanzadí had been far less severe. Evandar was cheerful – he laughed and sang with a genial spirit, and rarely said a harsh word. It was from him that she had learned to sing. Yet he was wise and temperate in serious matters and rarely was his advice amiss. He had balanced Islanzadí. The former queen's quick temper was much curbed by his jovial predisposition, and it was not until after his death that she became fueled largely by disapproval and austerity, especially towards her daughter. No, during that time, Arya had been free to wander and play as an elven child might desire, then unfettered by the demands of royal life. Fírnen touched one of her memories fondly, their mental connection causing him to share in her nostalgia.

_It seems to me, little one, _the dragon probed carefully, _that you oft regret your decision to take the crown?_

Arya sighed, opening her dark green eyes. _Of late, that is true. But no matter the trials I face, I can think of no better way to serve my people._

_Could you not, perhaps, serve them quite equally well as a Rider? _he continued hopefully. _Eragon and Saphira serve Alagaesia quite well from afar. Might we not do the same?_

Arya almost laughed – his feelings for Saphira were spilling over into her, and she could see the exquisite glow of the blue dragon's scales, the wicked glimmer in her jewel-like eye. Then she thought of someone else, of a brown-haired young man with dark eyes and an encouraging smile, and her amusement was lost to understanding. _In times such as these, _the elf admitted, _I wish for nothing more – if only for the comforts of informality and familiarity. But we have made our decision, and we shall abide by it. When we are able – as we have done in the past - we will fly to the Rider's Isle._

Fírnen acquiesced and nudged her shoulder fondly. Arya allowed a small smile to curl across her lips. The sun was still high in the afternoon sky, and the water shimmered beneath it like millions of sapphires. Almost, Arya mused, like Saphira's scales that she had just seen from Fírnen's mind. She could hear the sounds of the waves rising and falling with a gentle crash; and a cool breeze rose up, pushing Arya's hair back from her face. A seagull called overhead, and she felt that she stood on the continent as it had been before the first elves had set foot on it. The land had been restored, leaving her to pure serenity. Alagaesia did not yet exist, and her troubles as queen were entirely immaterial.

After a long while, Fírnen curled up like a cat in the sand and Arya perched herself on his side, still staring out to sea. Her dragon began to hum deeply, a sign that he was content. The vibrations ran through her, but she didn't mind. It was oddly comforting, and her senses began to dull with the edge of a restful trance, not quite like sleep in nature. A dark speck appeared on the horizon, and Arya's dark eyes followed it lazily as it slowly began to draw closer.

She blinked, every aspect of wakefulness reappearing. It must be a ship sailing towards the continent, which was strange by any standards. The only contacts anyone in Alagaesia or Ellesméra had away from the mainland were the Riders, and no merchants or travelers would ever make port at this deserted beach. Yet here the ship was, set to land within a matter of weeks – no, days. Her sharp eyes discerned that it was moving at a higher speed than any human ship she had ever seen.

_Are there still elves across the sea?_ asked Fírnen, arching up his long neck to follow Arya's gaze.

_If it were so, I was never informed of it. Yet we kept no relations, so perhaps it was not deemed necessary, _she replied. She was slightly perturbed by the oversight, as it showed a lack of concern for all eventualities. In other words, it was not logical, and logic was the mostly highly valued trait in the elven kingdom.

Fírnen seemed amused by her annoyance but made no mention of it. Instead, he suggested, _Perhaps you can view it more closely with a spell for far sight? I would prefer that I remain unseen for the time being._

Arya sent him a feeling of agreement and murmured the words of the spell. The ship began to grow larger in her vision. It was slender and streamlined, undoubtedly of elven make. The masts were tall spires with thick sails, white but weather-stained. The wood was hard and polished, sturdily constructed for a long journey. The prow cut swiftly through the water, but was unaided by magic, although Arya could see tall, elegant figures sweeping across the deck. She could not make out their features or attire, but a glint of sunlight off one of the elves informed her that they were armed. One female was significantly small than the others, more like to the size of a human. It was possible then, that the ship sailed with children as well.

The small elf turned her way, and she dropped the spell suddenly. It occurred to her that these other elves could quite possibly perform the same spell as she, and then both she and Fírnen would be easily visible. She voiced her concern to him and the left they beach and flew back to the river in Du Weldenvarden, hoping the traveling elves were not yet aware of them. Kneeling by the water, Arya murmured a different spell, and a scene drew itself on the surface.

She saw a large, arid room with one wall open to the sky. There were brackets by which a heavy, stiff covering could be attached to block out inclement weather. The floor was polished, almost reflective, stone, as were the walls. The ceiling appeared to be obsidian, which glimmered like the night sky. A bed sat in one corner of the room, and a writing desk was across from it. A piece of parchment lay upon the desk, but it seemed for some reason to be unfinished. A brown-haired young man stood facing away from her, unaware that he was being watched. He was removing the blue sword that hung at his side, and his thin body was catlike in that it seemed always ready to pounce.

"Eragon!" she called, and the man turned, a smile spreading across his face at the sound of her voice.

His brown eyes were as warm and inviting as his voice as he replied, "Arya, it is good to see you! And you as well, Fírnen. How fares Ellesméra?"

"Ellesméra is well for the time being, yet all may change within a moment," she answered cryptically, slightly irritated even as she spoke that she had fallen prey to the influence of the other elves.

Concerned, Eragon continued, "And why is that? Is some misfortune near to you?"

She answered his question with another question. "Have you seen a ship sailing past the Isle?"

His dark brow furrowed and he said, "One of my students spoke of what he took to be a merchant vessel blown off course, but that is all. Did he misinform me?"

Arya nodded. "It is an elven vessel, but does not find its origins in Du Weldenvarden. It seems that it may come from abroad. The ship makes haste towards the near beach."

Eragon sighed. "I should have known better than to trust Kamir's word of a ship. He is a very young boy who had never seen ship nor ocean before he came to the Isle. I could not expect him to know an elven ship from a trading vessel… I should have inspected myself, but it didn't occur to me at the time. I know that elves once hailed from a distant land, but I did not realize that some remained. Have you heard of them before?"

"No," she responded, her annoyance returning. "In all my education, it was never revealed to me. I do not know if my mother or father was aware of their existence, but I never was. Any teachers of mine implied that the elves migrated as a whole to this land, vacating our former home entirely. It is possible, however, that these elves remember us from long ago and left in the same heading."

The leader of the Riders seemed pensive. "If that is true, then, do they come bearing thoughts of war or reconciliation?"

"I do not know. I had hoped you knew of them and might offer me information, but you know as little as I, Shadeslayer," she said, using his title almost playfully.

He smiled. "That much is certain, Shadeslayer, but I believe that can be changed. Saphira and I will fly above them, in the clouds so that we will not be seen. I will bend space and take some of the Eldunarí with me, to hide our presence and lend us strength. Then, when we are near, I shall use spells of far sight and good hearing to spy on them. When I have gathered all I can of their intent, I will scry you again. What do you think?"

"A good plan, Eragon," she answered, somewhat relieved. "In the meantime, I will consult with the elders about our ancestral home. Perhaps they can tell us the circumstances that caused us to sail away, and they may have knowledge of our ancestry. It may bring insight into their intent… When shall you carry out this plan, so that I will know when to be outside the city? You know that the wards will block me within."

He thought for a moment and the said, "I will speak with the Eldunarí today and leave tomorrow. Look to speak with me in the afternoon."

The matter was settled, and a weight disappeared from Arya's chest. _Ask him where Saphira is, _requested Fírnen, sensing her change in mood. She complied readily.

"Out hunting, Fírnen," Eragon responded. "We just finished with a lesson about fighting in the sky, and she was quite hungry." He grinned and added, "I'm not surprised, either. She likes to show off her skills so much that she works up _quite_ an appetite."

Arya allowed herself a smile. Dragons were well known for their vanity, and Saphira was certainly no exception. It didn't help either that she was one of the best flyers since the dawn of the Riders. Arya could picture the blue dragon preening in the sun, humming with contentment as she rolled, twisted, flipped, and dove through the sky.

She and Eragon talked for the next few hours, exchanging tales of daily life, frustrations and happiness, lifting their worries one by one and watching them drift away on the wind. Arya smiled more freely, moment by moment, as did Eragon. Then, suddenly, they were both laughing, a high, sweet musical trill and a hearty baritone laugh that harmonized oddly well despite their differences. It was liberating – it was always liberating – talking to Eragon, who was so rarely stiff or angry with her, who was always ready to listen and offer friendly advice if she asked it of him.

But as the last tones of laughter drained away, Arya realized that the light was tinged with red and the sun was fading. She needed to return to Ellesméra or the other members of the royal houses would be missing her, and then they would question her about her whereabouts; it would take quite a bit longer to pursue her intended conversation about the elven homeland. As it was, Arya thought that by neglecting education of it entirely, the elders had evinced that it was a touchy subject; because of that it might take her hours anyway to wrench the information from their grip, even with a ships en route to the nearest beach. She reluctantly bid goodbye to Eragon, mounted Fírnen and flew home.

For most anyone, it would have been easy to miss the city from above because it was sung into the forest magically, so that the trees became living homes for the elves. But Arya and Fírnen had so often flown forth from it that it was likely they could have found it blindfolded. Fírnen began the descent in a steep, death-defying drop that made Arya's spirit soar with excitement. She was almost disappointed as the ground zoomed closer and Fírnen's path flattened dramatically, culminating anticlimactically in a safe, horizontal landing. A tall, slender elf with silver eyes and long hair like starlight loped gracefully to greet her.

"_Atra du evarínya ono varda," _he greeted respectfully in a deep, mellifluous voice.

Arya responded with the second line to the traditional greeting, and then continued before the other elf could begin to speak and distract her from her goal.

"Gamaliel," she pressed, still in the ancient language, "an elven ship sails nigh and shall come upon the shore within days. What knowledge can you give me of our ancient homeland? Did we not depart as one on our voyage here?"

The elf's lips parted, the largest expression of shock she had ever seen on his long-familiar face. His fair skin paled even though it was already white and his eyes showed that he was struggling for words. Gamaliel was never lost for words and never had been in Arya's lifetime.

"Arya Drӧttning," he said, skipping over his usual intricacies of speech, "the history of our ancestral homeland is a history of our bloodiest war, more so even than our long conflict with the dragons. If they shall come to this land, then more likely than not, they bring strife with them. Convene a council, my queen, and you shall know of the War of Bloodlines."

* * *

**So... My first chapter of my first fanfiction... sort of. I'm working on an LOTR co-op with Koury Coving (the term working is relative - we develop extreme ADHD when we're together). By the way she's awesome and you should definitely check out her stories, but she might hurt you if you leave without reviewing, so reviewing would be a fantastic way to avoid a grisly fate. As far as that goes - and returning back to me - I'll be happy if you do the same for this chapter. Any advice / constructive criticism / almost anything at all would be great.**

**Thanks from Gael Drake**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Eremiel closed her eyes and focused, reaching out towards her father's quarters. Yes, she was only fourteen and many elves considered her to be little more than an infant, but in the human world, she was nearly an adult. Besides that, even children ought to have a say in their own fate. Who did her father think he was, anyway? He was only the king of Aloníria, not a god, but he fancied himself to be one when it came to his daughter. Eremiel could hardly remember the last time he had allowed her presence while he made a decision about her. The magic seeped through her, and then her father's voice became clear.

"The others may have come this way, and if that is so, they cannot know about Eremiel. It would be highly imprudent, dangerous even to consider such a thing with her… affliction. It is cause for war – they would never accept it if they found out. You ought to know this best of all, Laerä, after all your troubles," Father urged.

Eremiel resisted her desire to punch something or wreak other havoc upon her surroundings. So it was an affliction now, was it? It wasn't like this particular _difference_ was his fault or anything – oh no, it was an _affliction_ like a human disease. Father was so… dogmatic. It had taken her three years of begging and pleading and shouting and cursing at him before he had even allowed her to train in archery and knife-throwing, which bore little danger even to an eleven-year-old child with a proper teacher. And horseback riding. He had been afraid that swift elven horses would be too fast and wild for her, so she'd convinced another child to teach her in secret. Needless to say, nothing horrible had happened to either of them.

The only thing he had ever allowed her to learn without a struggle was politics, and that was probably because she was his only child and heir; so if he died, she would probably be forced to rule, or at least become highly involved in political affairs. Of course, she rarely got a chance to use her diplomatic skills, as she was "too young" to attend council. Eremiel sighed exasperatedly and muttered an impolite phrase in a human tongue under her breath. He was supposedly so _wise,_ too. That was how he'd become king even though his brother was older than him and would usually have had claim to the crown – his overwhelming wisdom beyond his years.

She was about to lean over and bang her head against the wall, but then she heard a door open and her father's step echoed through the corridor. That was something she liked about her particular brand of magic – she could hear things that even other elves found inaudible, and they were distinctive to her. Eremiel could also shroud her sounds from others, so she could conceivably clomp through halls and corridors like a galloping horse and no one would ever hear her. Once when she was younger and had just discovered that side of her magic, she had hidden in the room next door to her father and mother and sang at the top of her lungs to see if they would notice. They hadn't. Ever since then, she had used her gifts for eavesdropping and spying whenever she deemed it necessary, which was most of the time, because that was how often her father was given to making decisions without her.

Unfortunately, many years back, the change that had been wrought upon the elves and had granted them magical abilities, which made her magic possible, also included the somewhat telepathic ability to perceive, locate, and intrude upon other consciousnesses; which meant Eremiel's father was always able to find her. It also meant that she had to be at a distance when spying on him, or he would notice her presence and she would be in for a long and tedious scolding. She could hear how it would go already – the cadence of his voice would lengthen into a singsong drone and he would go on and on about her mother and things that had happened thousands of years before her birth and in no way pertained to her actions. At some point her attention would start to wander off the continent – or given their current position, on to one – and then he would notice and start over. It would be glorious.

A different but still familiar step echoed down the hall as her father's passed by her door without hesitating. Eremiel identified it in an instant.

The door clicked open, and a light, airy voice greeted, "_Kvetha, _Erél." Eremiel only nodded curtly at her friend's fond salutation. The young elf continued jocosely, "How fares the princess of Aloníria?"

Eremiel rolled her eyes, and replied, "I'm not sure to whom you are referring. There seems to be some sort of helpless child, but surely she's not yet old enough to answer such a question herself. Perhaps you might ask her father instead?"

Lafián, her friend, only smiled. "He grieves you so – I wonder that you share much of the same blood as he. I remember the day when you convinced me to teach you to ride against the king's orders… What sours your thoughts of him today?"

Lafián twirled a finger through her shining golden hair and raised one eyebrow expectantly, but Eremiel only sighed exasperatedly.

"Come, Erél, tell me what has happened. It's likelier than not that you've told me as much in the past," she pressed slightly impatiently.

Eremiel took a deep breath, but instead of calming down, her heart only began to pound faster and she could feel the heat rising up in her, ready to explode at any moment. Her hand clenched into a fist and Lafián winced at the coming burst of anger. Eremiel only just manage to use her magic to block the sound from unwelcome ears before she started.

"He called it an _affliction_. He called the circumstances of my birth an _affliction._ He chose her! Nothing forced him to choose my mother as a mate but his own feelings. How can he feel as if my birth, my blood is not a result of what he has done? He must, for all his wisdom, understand that _I am his child_. If – "

She cut herself off before she could say anymore. Not even Lafián could know what she was thinking; that if her father thought her birth was afflicted, then he must also view her as a mistake, something that never should have happened in the first place. The King of Aloníria must think of her as a blemish. But if that's what Eremiel was, she was going to be his _personal_ blemish. As long as he was going to regret her birth, she might as well make him rue it entirely. After all, why not? A mistake could never possibly glean more than a look of slight approbation, and even that would be more effort than it was worth.

"… You have that look, Erél; the look you had when you went exploring in the caves almost only because your father had forbidden it. Is it in my best interests, or yours, to know what you think?" Lafián said, staring at Eremiel's forehead rather than her intense, golden-brindled brown eyes.

Eremiel grinned mischievously and replied, "No, decidedly not."

Lafián sighed. Little Erél, as in six or seven year old Erél, had never been so disobedient; had never argued so much with her father. But then again, her mother had been alive and had devoted all her attention to raising her little girl. Lafián was twenty-seven – still very much an elven child, but old enough to remember those years with clarity. She was old enough also to remember the slow process of Eremiel's mother's death; her suffering under a mortal disease that the elves could not understand. None of their kind ever had disease, and when something terrible came, they did not know how to cure it. That was what had driven Eremiel and her father apart – Erél couldn't understand how her father's powerful magicians had failed to cure her mother. Something in her did not believe that they had not known how, that there had been nothing to be done.

"Please, Erél," Lafián implored, touched by the sorrowful memory, "talk to him. Be reasonable. You need not argue so strongly against him."

Eremiel's jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. Opening them slowly, she responded tensely, "I have tried being reasonable, Lafián. I have tried not to question him, but rather to trust his word as well. I cannot, however, allow him to dictate my every movement and every sound because he is _afraid_. He may be my father, but he doesn't own me; he can't control me like a slave. I simply won't permit it. With the things he has said, and those he has left unsaid, I cannot abide by his bigotry any longer. I am _finished._"

With this, she got up and swept out the door, ignoring Lafián, who flinched as she passed. The wood beneath her feet pitched suddenly, but she kept her balance easily and then flew up the ladder. She burst onto the deck, and, paying no heed to multiple warnings and greetings given to her, fairly attacked the riggings as she started to climb up the mast of the ship. The sea was sparkling blue in all directions, but Eremiel couldn't appreciate the beauty. The thought of her father, the _illustrious _king of Aloníria, the newly nomadic country was like a blot on the horizon. Her hand reached up and drew her closer to the crow's nest, and then her father's voice snapped through the air in the ancient language.

"Eremiel! Come away from there at once! I desire to speak with you!"

She cursed inwardly, now realizing the content of the other elves' warnings. Hesitating for half a second, she considered climbing higher just to spite him, and then she reluctantly began her descent, relinquishing the height she had gained just moments before. When she was about ten feet from the deck, she let go and pushed away from the mast, alighting soundlessly on the smooth, dark wood. She could almost hear him sighing with disapproval.

"Yes, Father?" she asked innocently, approaching him. "Is something the matter?"

Útíradien motioned sternly but elegantly to the cabin on deck. "I wish for us to be alone," he answered.

_So that you may tell me privately how much you regret my birth,_ Eremiel finished silently. _Whatever you say, milord. I am, apparently, yours to command._ She followed him wordlessly inside and sat at the table in the center of the room.

"I have come to tell you that – " he began in his deep, mellifluous voice.

Eremiel interrupted, "You have a secret affinity for dramatic poetry readings of ancient histories but only I can know about it?"

"No, I – "

"Well that's a pity. It sounded entertaining."

"Erél, silence!" the king exclaimed, already exasperated. She looked up at him sweetly, indicating for him to continue.

He took a deep breath and began again. "In naught but a few days, we shall reach the shore of whatever land we have come upon. When we disembark, there is something I would like you to promise me."

"Am I promising this when we disembark, or now? I wasn't very sure," Eremiel asked with a grin.

Her father, who hated wisecracking, stared at her with deep distaste before continuing, "This may well be the land to which the Warfarers sailed. That fact alone may endanger us in this place. However, our peril would be multiplied tenfold if they knew of your bloodline. You shall not reveal it to anyone we may encounter, or speak of it to any of our people while we remain here. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Eremiel replied, and her father seemed momentarily relieved. She laughed inwardly at his naïveté. Then, she added, "But, Father, it seems to me that you are much more likely than I am to reveal my… secret. It is, without fail, you who broaches the topic in conversation. I am content to let my bloodline rest, but you continue to pull it so taut it nearly snaps. Are you certain that you will not endanger us? I'm quite concerned, sir."

Útíradienseemed to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall and then throttle his daughter. Probably it would have solved his problems more efficiently if he hadn't held himself in check.

"Erél, contain yourself," he said through his teeth. She calmly observed the clenched muscles in his neck. "I speak so often of your bloodline not out of a lack of self-control, but rather an attempt to keep you safe. No matter how often I impress the severity of your heritage upon you, you do not seem to understand its importance. Eremiel – "

She cut him off again. Sometimes she really had to wonder how he could keep control of a country. "Evidently, you failed to grasp the 'severity' of my heritage when you chose my mother! Most likely you could have had any woman you wanted, and you picked her. You must have been _horribly_ irresponsible to have done such a thing. What _were_ you thinking? Were you thinking?"

He flushed slightly, his haughty, pale cheeks darkening to light pink. "That is not of your concern. I had my reasons for what I did and you shall not question them."

"No," she snapped, her hands clenching into fists, "I shall follow you blindly to the ends of the earth and back again, and if we are to perish for your _reasons_, if we are to burn in flames for your _reasons_, I shall not question them. You cannot, sire, fall prey to any fallacies of the world. I _submit_ to you."

Her father stood up suddenly and turned away, frustrated by Eremiel's childishness. This was why he had not allowed the fourteen-year-old to discuss this when he had spoken with his attendants. She would only have caused a scene and publicly have undermined his authority. A child of this nature was stuck between ages, too old to be called a babe and too young to be sensible.

"A sharpened sword will cut its master as swiftly as it will a foe," he warned her.

She retorted, "Never having used a sword, I am not well familiar with their natures. You ought well to understand, however, that a misaimed arrow may cost a battle."

"A battle lost may win a war," the king reminded sternly.

At this, Eremiel exclaimed, "Then why not lose the battle, just for once? Would the consequences be so dire?"

"Yes, Erél, as I have told you since your mother's death, they would not be light," he answered, exasperated.

"Every word of yours is hypocritical!" she burst out. "How can you rule a country when you cannot believe in the words you say, when your actions don't reflect your policies? Is this why our people are lost, banished from our home? Is this why our remnant has fled to sea? Because you are as inept a king as you are a father?"

His eyes flashed dangerously, and he raised a fist as if to strike her. She did not flinch, but only stared at him accusingly as if daring him to hurt her. With some visible effort, he lowered his hand to his side and took a deep breath.

"You are out of line, child," he said, his voice lowering to a dangerous calm.

Eremiel was undeterred. "I prefer curves," she answered quickly. "They have much more… personality."

It was more than foolish, she knew, to keep going after he had come so close to beating her, but she couldn't stop herself. He had never laid a finger on her before, and she could not believe he would do it now, when the mark of his anger would be on display so clearly for all their people to see. More than that, however, her anger had not yet subsided, and she could hardly control herself.

"It is possible to have _too much_ personality," muttered the king of Aloníria.

"But also too little," Eremiel amended.

Highly agitated, her father exclaimed, "Eremiel Nostarén Drӧttningu! Is it necessary that you contradict each word I say?"

"No, but I find it an amusing way to pass the time," she replied.

"Who am I," he asked tightly, "to deserve so much of your scorn?"

A dam seemed to burst inside Eremiel, and she explained, "You are a closed-minded, arrogant, egotistical, conceitedly pretentious, narcissistic, dogmatic, intolerant, obstinate, peremptory, tyrannical…" She started to trail of as she struggled for more words, and then finished, "sorry excuse for a father!"

Útíradien's jaw set and his brown eyes, so like his daughter's, flashed with anger. "Leave this cabin," he commanded through gritted teeth, "and return to your quarters. I tire of your foolishness."

The girl stood up and met his eyes, her chin cocked upward defiantly. Then she turned and strode away disdainfully, looking straight ahead as she opened the cabin door and passed the other elves, all of whom were trying not to look interested. Below deck, where there were fewer people to notice her, she started to run, and as she reached her room, slammed the door angrily without bothering to conceal the sound. She breathed hard for a long while, and the conversation rang in her ears. At least she was good at bothering him; that had been her new goal anyway. She ran the back of her hand over her eyes, banishing any tears that were coming – she would not be so weak as to cry at a simple argument.

Then, she stepped out of her boots, shrugged off her outer layer of clothing, and curled up miserably on her hammock. It swayed back and forth slightly as the waves rocked the ship, and it reminded her of curling up in her mother's arms and letting her rock her gently to sleep. Eremiel closed her eyes and tried to pretend she really was falling slowly to sleep on her mother's lap, and the soft croon of the wind outside the ship was the gentle timbre of her mother's voice.

It could be telling the stories she always used to say; the legends about how the stars are the souls of those who have passed, and the souls of those the living loved still watch over them. Or it could be that poem about the sea, the one that said it was the same only in that it was always changing, one moment calm and the next caught up in a raging tempest. _How comforting,_ Eremiel thought, _when all that remains of one's country is on a ship in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the fickle waters._

Which, if she considered it, only made her feel worse. Before she could depress herself further, Eremiel stood up and started to pace from edge to edge of her quarters. Thirty paces each direction. Probably it was meant for multiple people, but she was the only occupant. She had to wonder if her father wanted to separate her from the others to keep her out of trouble. At least that meant she had enough space to dance. For a human, it might have been difficult to balance with the ship dipping back and forth periodically, but she was not human. Carefully, she untied her hammock from the metal rings it was attached to, and then she let it fall against one wall in a crumpled heap. She dropped the clothes that she'd removed near it and returned to the center of the smooth wooden floor.

Eremiel took a deep breath, and then slowly swept her arms out in front of her, as if literally clearing the air, pushing her forearms first and then letting her wrists snap back elegantly as her foot slid forward into a point. She paused there for a moment, and then, coming to life, she took two running steps and flew into a graceful twist. The momentum carried as she landed, and she pirouetted, lifting into a full split as she spun. Then she was off, as if controlled by music only she could hear. It seemed to surround her, and soon the dance was all she could feel.

When she danced, she felt powerful. She felt like she was in control and the world was hers, no one's but hers to do with as she pleased. Every jump, every arch of her back, every step was her choice and hers alone. She was the master of her fate. Nothing else mattered – not her father or memories of her mother that haunted her so. Eremiel leaped and arched, her front leg straight and pointed and her back leg bent, and as she landed, she heard herself laugh, releasing weeks of pent up emotions. She was letting them all go, one by one, movement by movement. With each step, she felt lighter and stronger until at last she felt as if she were no longer tethered to the ground, and instead she was an angel, graceful, powerful, and free. At last, she stepped into a final flip, and then landed upright, her arms outstretched and reaching for the sky and her eyes gazing through the layers of wood and to the heavens far above.

Her chest heaving, she dropped her arms and smiled with relief. Then she walked slowly, languidly to the pile of clothes and hammock and lay down, content that there would be an answer to her problems. Somehow she would prove to her father that she was more than just a child and that her bloodline didn't matter. She would convince him that she was not a mistake someday, when his mind would be open to the concept. Still… it would have been easier for Eremiel to put up with her father's folly were she at home, where everything was more familiar, less confined, and more comfortable.

But, she reminded herself, the entire population of their country would have died had they not left when they did. The _Sluaghya_ would have killed them. The girl remembered the first time she had seen one of them kill an elf, and she shivered at how close she had been to the victim.

It had been the _Agaetí Fyrnmanin_, the celebration commemorating the end of the _Fyrn abr Blӧdh_, the War of Bloodlines. Víraenya had been singing "_Thringaya Silbena,"_ which meant "Sighing Rains" and told the sorrows of the war both in great passion and detail. It was sung unaccompanied, and that made it all the more haunting and riveting to all. The red sun was setting over the horizon, as tradition dictated, and the darkness was crawling across the world. That was why none, not even Eremiel, had noticed the shadow looming too far for the trees to have cast it. The quick, heavy wing beats had only been the brush of wind through branches, nothing more. And then Sanpharae had cried out not far from Eremiel, and she had whirled to face him. By then it was already too late.

A creature had materialized, above him, its great, heavy talons digging into his shoulders as he twisted to free himself. Eremiel stumbled back, reaching for a knife and realizing they were all unarmed even as Sanpharae's sister cried out a spell against the creature. Green fire lanced out at the beast, and Eremiel felt its heat, but the monster only stretched out its huge, leathery black wings and waited for a moment as it seemed to absorb the fire and nullify its power. The air chilled around them. Then the creature screeched, a grating, ghoulish sound that made Eremiel want to scream and cover her ears. She did not realize until afterwards that it had been _laughing._

Another voice called one of the twelve words for death, but only to the same effect. This time, the magic was invisible, but the Sluagh absorbed the energy all the same. Then, it pulled back and lifted from Sanpharae's bleeding shoulders. Eremiel knew it was retreating to strike again. The young elf swayed and collapsed to his knees, and Eremiel braced herself to run and tackle him out of the way. Before she could move, a second Sluagh streaked in from the darkening sky and tore at Sanpharae's neck, wounding him severely. This time Eremiel did not hesitate, but threw herself headlong onto Sanpharae and curled over him like a shield. She heard the cries of warning, dismay, and magic distantly, but none of them had any effect on the Sluaghya, which collided with her, tearing into her side. Eremiel screamed and tumbled off Sanpharae.

She lay on her back, trying to push herself upward against the pain of the wound, while both Sluaghya charged again; now ready to kill both of him.

A strong voice shouted, "_Skӧlir!_" and a shield sprang up around the two of them.

In the brief moments of safety, Eremiel located her father as the spellcaster. The Sluaghya, suspecting another offensive attack, were briefly trumped by the shield, and two elves streaked in to save the injured pair.

Her eyes cast upward, where the Sluaghya were attacking the shield and beginning to drain the energy from it, Eremiel gasped, "Sanpharae. Please, Sanpharae – he's dying, needs help."

Meanwhile, the other elves, realizing that magic may have an effect if the Sluaghya were taken unawares, attacked them with renewed efforts. But the energy the Sluaghya had taken from the magic before seemed to strengthen them, and they stifled each of the elves' tremendous efforts. Eremiel felt the elves lift her up instead and she understood – she was Drӧttningu, so she was their first priority. The shield gave way, and Sanpharae was abandoned, bleeding out on the ground, while Eremiel shouted at the elves carrying her away and every other elf who could possibly have tried to save him. Then, a Sluagh swooped down and, closing its talons around his side, lifted him in the air and bore him away. The other stayed briefly to deflect the magic for its partner, and then it flew after it. By then, several elves had summoned or ran to find their bows, but the energy the Sluaghya had absorbed seemed to make them supernaturally powerful, and they dodged every arrow.

Soon the monsters were out of sight, and the elves began to wail in mourning for their young companion. Útíradien urgently led his people into the palace, out of the reach of the creatures. All this time, Eremiel had been struggling against her captors' arms, but when they laid her on a table near her father, she went limp and then began to tremble.

"Surely," Útíradien objected, "it was not necessary for the both of you to carry one as light as this child! Could you not have saved the boy as well?"

That was true – they could have saved him, she knew they could have saved him, but they had chosen to shield her instead. But there was something wrong about that statement, something callous or cold that she couldn't detect. She did not realize until later that her father had not been concerned for her while she lay bleeding on a table – he was only angry that they had not tried harder to save Sanpharae. "This child" – that was what he had called her – not "Eremiel" or "Erél" or even "my daughter," just "this child." There was no particular familial affection in the way he said it, no indication of worry for that child's safety.

They fought about it later, in the midst of all the chaos and fear Aloníria had been cast into. The Sluaghya came again and again, and the warriors rarely ever managed to wound them, but they fought over what he had said that day and over what it had meant, whether or not he loved her or even cared the slightest bit about her. Their world was falling to chaos, and all they could do was fight. One of the only times Eremiel could remember being with her father and not quarreling was the very next morning after the first attack. And that was only because they had found Sanpharae's body.

Some of her father's men had ventured out cautiously in the morning, hoping that the Sluaghya would not dare to attack them in the full morning light. They had been traveling unmolested and were beginning to relax when they spotted him. A limp mass lay still near the shore of the lake, and they sensed that it was dead. The skies seemed clear, so they advanced carefully to take a closer look. In just moments, they were all but sure. One of them, who had been like Sanpharae's mentor, burst out with a cry and ran towards the corpse. He saw the mangled flesh and congealed blood and wept his grief, twisting his hand upward and placing it over his heart. And then he saw the young elf's eyes.

They were black; not just in the pupil or the iris, but fully and completely black, as dark as if they were empty sockets. It was as if the color and light had drained out of him with his life. Eremiel did not see them herself, as his eyes had already been closed at the funeral, but she saw the same phenomenon on later victims. It chilled her, unsettled her, made her want to flee the body and never stop running, not until she came to a land where no one died, where there was no sadness, where everyone was always safe. And then she would know that could never happen, and she could hardly see the point of continuing at all. After the first few victims, it was even worse.

Her father had gone to visit the human communities nearby, as he had not done since Eremiel was perhaps three years old, and he took her with him this time to keep an eye on her. They saw the smoke, thick and black, rising up in a nightmarish cloud before they were halfway there. The stench of burning flesh assailed their noses just moments later. The king looked at Eremiel, asking her silently if she could bear to continue. She glared at him resentfully, as if he had meant the inquiry as a direct challenge of her strength. They kept moving, their eyes beginning to water as they approached the flames. When they arrived, they saw them for what they were – a funeral pyre to the victims of the Sluaghya.

An old, weathered woman with wispy white hair and deep set wrinkles detached herself from the somber gathering around the pyre and approached them cautiously. At least, Eremiel assumed she was old – that was the impression the woman's appearance gave her. But she had never seen a human before, so she supposed she couldn't be absolutely sure.

"Do you come to bring us aid?" she asked in a trembling tone.

Útíradien stared mournfully at the pyre. "Are these the victims of the monsters that have attacked us as of late?"

"It is so, sir," replied the woman, casting her eyes downward. "Do you know much of them?"

The smoke seemed to enchant her father, so Eremiel replied, "No, Mistress; we have only encountered them on but a few occasions. We came to listen to your knowledge of the beasts, should you have any."

The woman's despair was almost palpable. There would be no help for them. Still, she answered, "We know but a little, but what knowledge we have we shall share."

Her father seemed to come out of his trance, inclining his head as a laconic sign of thanks.

"Come inside," she said, motioning to a small, derelict hut, "where the smoke is not so cloying."

They followed her indoors, but the sloping walls did little to alleviate the pungent odor. Eremiel tried not to think of how the ash they had inhaled was all that remained of human beings. She did not want to remember that she was breathing them in, but she couldn't avoid the morbid thought. Bile rose into the back of her throat. The three sat down on the cold dirt floor.

"Now, let me see… Where shall I begin?" murmured the old woman.

The king replied, "Have these beasts a name? Have they been seen before in these skies?"

"Yes, yes, they have a name, though they have not been seen before on this land," she answered slowly, "My family has kept the histories of our people since generations long past, when we wandered in lands far to the east. It was there that they attacked us. They are called Sluagh, miserable creatures both in life and now in death."

"In death? Now?" Eremiel exclaimed, startled. "What do you mean to say?"

She took a deep breath and explained, "Legend has it that Sluagh are the spirits of those who have passed which have been rejected by both heaven and hell. They prey at night on the unsuspecting, especially children, who are pure. It is said that Sluagh capture their victims and consume their souls, leaving the bodies for their families to find in the morning. That is why the eyes become black – because the eyes are the windows to the soul, and these have no soul."

The elves, who didn't believe in heaven, hell, or even any gods found this dubious, but Útíradien did manage to pick a couple useful tidbits of information from the superstition. Eremiel shivered because as the youngest child in their kingdom, it was especially likely that the Sluaghya would target her.

"You are certain that they attack only at night?" pressed her father urgently.

"That is what the tales say," confirmed the woman. "What is more, they have never attacked us here during the hours of light. But from dusk until dawn," she warned, "do not dare venture from your home or you shall be lost."

"I thank you for your advice," said the king thoughtfully.

Eremiel's eyebrows furrowed, and she continued, "But why, then, have so many here perished?"

The woman looked at her with tears glimmering in her deep eyes. "Our homes are insufficient to keep the Sluagh away. They simply attack until the house begins to collapse, and then there is no escape."

"Then you have no refuge?" asked Eremiel, horrified.

"No, child," said the woman desperately. Looking to Útíradien, she pleaded, "Please, sir, I beg of you – shelter our people or we shall all perish."

Eremiel turned to her father pleadingly; their walls were stronger than those built by human hands – surely he would grant them refuge? She was about to ask him when she felt his consciousness touch hers. He did not want to discuss this in front of the old woman.

_You wish me to grant them asylum. Is that correct, Erél?_ His tone was cautious, unsure.

_Yes, Father. Our walls will not give as theirs do, and we are far more likely to discover how we might defeat the creatures,_ she entreated.

He was still dubious. _And yet our walls cannot endure forever, and when they cave, I cannot truly guarantee the safety of our own people, let alone that of these humans. Harboring them would as well draw even more of the monsters to our city. It would be more prudent to leave them here._

_ More prudent for our people, yes, but cruel beyond the measure of words! _Eremiel exclaimed. _If your mind is set, then at least consider bringing the children, Father. Please._

He reminded, _We have been told that the Sluaghya target first the children, and then the adults. It would be extremely unwise, Erél, to take them back to the city._

_ They will not take the children if they cannot reach them. And as my father, _objected Eremiel, issuing an ultimatum, _if you care for me, then you understand their parents' pain. If you love me, you will save the children._

Resigned, her father replied, _The children shall accompany us, but no more. We cannot afford the danger._

_ Thank you, Father,_ she said. Then impulsively, she added, _And when did "Sluagh" become "Sluaghya"? "Sluagh" for one, "Sluaghya" for two or more?_

Slightly chagrined, he answered, _Exactly. If we are to use the word, then it may well be in accordance with the rules of our language._

Then, aloud, he said, "We are willing to shelter your children, but we have the means to do no more. Should you gather them quickly, we shall be able to reach the city before nightfall."

The tears spilled over from the woman's eyes. "I thank you, sire. Anything that you can do is well-appreciated. Let us… go and speak to the others."

So they emerged from the hut and the woman called a gathering. Útíradien explained his proposal succinctly, and Eremiel was startled at how quickly each of the parents agreed to relinquish their children. They must have been truly desperate to send their children away in just a few minutes, to wave goodbye and tell them not to look back. To know that they would die without ever seeing their children again. But they did it. They gathered their children and sent them away with Eremiel and her father, grieving already but resolute. It was the children who cried and wanted to stay, who clung to their parents, their aunts and uncles and begged them not to make them go. But soon enough, they had agreed to go, and the company was on its way.

There were twelve children Eremiel's age or older, and seven younger. That was all; the rest had been killed either by the Sluaghya or disease. The older ones looked after the younger children, but they all looked ragged and weary. Eremiel picked up a little boy, about five, who was half-asleep on his feet. She had never seen other children younger than herself, and she had never visited the humans before, so she found the children intriguing. The little boy lacked some of the natural grace and beauty that elven children had, but she decided that he was actually quite cute and his awkwardness was endearing.

He had little straw-blond curls and a very round face, a button nose, and sleepy pale blue eyes, and his arms were locked trustingly around Eremiel's neck. He laid his head in the crook of her neck and closed his eyes. Soon he was breathing softly, and Eremiel realized he was asleep. She started to notice the other children glancing timidly at her and her father, like they wanted to ask something but weren't sure how. She met the eyes of a girl about her age, who smiled shyly. She smiled back, which gave the girl enough courage to ask her a question.

"Where are we going, exactly?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eremiel replied, "Aloníria. That's our city – the elven city."

"Will we be safe there?"

Hesitantly, she answered, "You will definitely be saf_er_, but I cannot say for sure that you will be _safe._ We have been attacked there as well, but they have only been able to take but a few of us."

The girl bit her lip nervously, and then a boy, perhaps ten, piped up, "Are there lots of children in the city?"

Eremiel shook her head. "Not as you would see them. I am the only child younger than twenty years among us."

Now a little girl chirped, "That must be lonely. Don't you have any friends?"

"I do, of course, but sometimes it is lonely," she said truthfully.

Being a princess had always been and would always be lonely; such was the nature of the role. She could tell it would be no different with the human children – they were tentative and a little reverent around her. She had the feeling that they were too far separated by both race and title to grow close to them.

They continued on in silence the rest of the way until the palace came into view. Then there was a little collective gasp, and the king smiled in spite of himself. But it truly was impressive. It rose out of the green hills, watching the approaching children with distant splendor. Gold and silver workings caught the afternoon light and shimmered like mirages. The spires rose up starkly into the sky, ornate and yet sleek at the same time. Despite its vastness, it somehow seemed slender and elegant, much like its makers. They walked on for several minutes, but there was another gasp as the first tinges of red appeared in the sky and suddenly the palace seemed ethereal.

The first tinges of red. Sunset. Dusk. Útíradien and Eremiel exchanged an alarmed look, and then they both began to urge the children on faster. The older children understood and began to coax the little ones to run; picking them up if they were too worn out for the task. The king quickly erected a shield around them, and the race began. They flew across the hills as quickly as the children's legs could carry them, but Eremiel worried that they were not fast enough. Something huge and black streaked across the sky in the corner of Eremiel's eye, and she knew what it was. They were beginning to reach the outlying homes now, but the palace, still ahead of them, would be safer.

A Sluagh lunged down at a child, but the shield repelled it and it bounced away. The children shrieked with terror. Eremiel's father winced, and she realized it had drained some of the energy from the shield. Another Sluagh joined the fight with the same result. Eremiel spotted a third and fourth flitting in and out of the clouds. When they, too, attacked, the shield flickered and almost vanished. They were draining her father's magic far too quickly. But the palace gate was there, right there and they were so close. Just a little farther, a few steps. There were wards on the doors that would keep the Sluaghya from breaking in before the gates could be closed again. They just had to make it that far, and then they would be safe.

And then the shield had broken and the children were shrieking and the king was gasping for breath, but they were all still running. Eremiel clutched the boy protectively to her chest and sprinted the last few steps inside. Turning back, she pulled three more children inside and watched the rest running for cover. Her father now had one on his back and one in his arms but the Sluaghya were attacking them and he wouldn't make it unless he let them go. But he wouldn't, surely he wouldn't.

"Garzjla!" he cried, and it worked for a moment. The light bursting into the air gave him the time he needed to gather the children and break for the door. By the time they finished absorbing the magic, he already had a foot inside, and he and the children were safe. Several more were inside by now, and just three were struggling to reach the haven. One of them was a teenage boy, about seventeen, who had stayed behind to help the other two.

A Sluagh descended upon him, and he fell with a cry as it began to tear into his chest. Eremiel's hand found a knife, but she hesitated, remembering the way the first two had dodged the arrows on the night of Sanpharae's death. On a sudden inspiration, she acted magically at the boy, trying to muffle the sound of his cries. The Sluagh automatically tapped into the magic to absorb the energy, the nature of which confused it. And in its sudden distraction, she flung the knife. It hit the beast squarely in the side beneath its outstretched wing and it cried in agony, fluttering weakly of the boy, who jumped to his feet and ran with all his might through the gates. Then they were all through, and the guards pulled them closed unceremoniously as the Sluaghya attempted to attack. They were safe.

The injured had been tended to, and Eremiel was sent to watch over the children while Útíradien entered council with his advisors. The little boy whom she had carried found her and curled up against her side, crying. She picked him up, promised the other children she would be right back, and hurried to her room to fetch the toy rabbit, sewn from soft white cloth, that she had loved to play with as a little girl. He latched right onto it and whispered an endearing little "thank you" in her ear. When they fell asleep that night, he was still pressed close to her, clutching the rabbit in between them.

The next day, upon waking up and leading the other children to breakfast, one of her father's advisors, Ganelir, took her aside. She learned that her father had been persuaded to return for the rest of the humans. He had left with a small company as soon as it was light enough to travel safely. But they had returned just hours later, alone. It was too late, they said. The Sluaghya had attacked during the night, and all had perished. Some had taken their own lives rather than suffer at the hands of the beasts, and others had died the horrible deaths that the Sluaghya brought. The elves chose not to tell the children of their parents' passing, and Eremiel honored that wish. Just days later, the decision was made.

They would leave, all of them, by ship within the next week. Though Aloníria lay in the hills, the ocean was close, and the elves constantly kept their ships in good condition and ready to sail. All that would remain would be to gather supplies. But in that week, the Sluaghya grew more vicious, more intent on stealing their prey, perhaps because Aloníria now had the only ready crop of victims. Eremiel made sure to watch the children like a hawk, but other elves began to fall to the Sluaghya, caught accidentally outside at dusk or daring and disbelieving of the peril. By the time they left, there were few enough remaining to travel on one large ship.

And now they were at sea, and the Sluaghya had not attacked since they had reached the open waters where land was invisible. Eremiel guessed that they could not fly out far enough to reach them, and they could not roost in the daylight. On the ocean, they were safe.

Someone knocked low down on the door. It must have been Cyran, the little boy Eremiel had carried. He had latched on to her like no one else ever had, and he often came to her when he was lonely or scared. She was teaching him the ancient language, and he was learning quickly. He was teaching her how not to speak so formally in human tongues, which was fantastic for annoying her father. Not that Cyran knew that.

"Cyran," she called. "Is that you?"

She stood up and swiftly re-dressed and re-attached the hammock to its rings.

A little boy voice answered, "Yes, 'Rél. Can I come in?"

She opened the door and he walked in, the rabbit hugged to his chest. Eremiel picked him up and sat down with him on the hammock. "Of course you can. Is something wrong?"

"Will the Slu-ah find us when we get off the boat?" Cyran asked, his lower lip quivering.

Eremiel shook her head. "I don't think so, Cyran. But I'll be there, no matter what. I won't let anything hurt you."

"Okay," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.

Then he was calm, trusting in her promise. But Eremiel was on edge; her mind wouldn't let her relax. True, the Sluaghya might be gone forever, but what would they face next? She jumped from possibility to possibility, conjuring up horrible fates in her head, threats worse than the one that had driven them from their home. Anything could be on that land; anything at all. There could, she reminded herself, even be health and safety waiting ahead. It was no use worrying about what might be. Soon they would find themselves on dry land again, and everything would be different. But whatever happened, she would weather the storm; even learn to revel in it and praise the vitality it would one day bring. She would embrace her bloodline, and she and her people would step onto that land with their heads held high and no sign of surrender in their eyes.

* * *

**So... That was chapter two, as you probably figured out by now. To anyone who read chapter one before, sorry for taking so long to post again. I blame three AP classes, all of which would like to kill me. I mean really, they're murderous. Anyway, Efrain, Arya, and Eragon will all be back soon, so don't worry about them. Fun fact: Koury Coving finished chapter three of In the Light of the Red Dawn at about the same time I finished this chapter. It's an LOTR fanfiction, so you should definitely go read and review. ~ Back to Dry Lightning: If convenient, leave a review. If inconvenient, leave all the same.**

**- Thanks,**

**Gael Drake**


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